


Ignorance and Bliss

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of her wants to drop to her knees and thank the gods for this unlikely friendship, for Jaime's choice to support her over his own sister, his own family-</p>
<p>And yet.  <i>Family.</i></p>
<p>Written for the <a href="http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/1067.html">Game of Thrones Exchange Comment Fic Meme</a> on LiveJournal.  The prompt was:  Jaime/Sansa; they talk about Joffrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignorance and Bliss

“I didn’t do it.”

They’ve had this conversation so many times- while riding side by side through the dense woods, while sitting together by the weak campfire, while curled up against each other under tattered furs on a tiny camp bed. She always takes care to look him right in the eye- _lack of eye contact is the easiest way to spot a liar, Petyr used to say_ \- 

And he always nods, always attempts to mollify her with a non-committal “As you say.” But his eyes seem to look past her, never locking on her own fervent gaze. Then he tries to divert her attention, whether with crude japes to make her gasp and laugh or with the deliberate movement of his hand over her curves, his lips on her collarbone-

But tonight, Sansa clenches her fingers in the short wisps of gold on Jaime’s head and pulls his face up. He knits his brows together with some annoyance, but she proceeds nonetheless- 

“You don’t believe me.”

He sighs, a dry, heavy sound. “Why does it matter whether I believe you? I’ve sworn to protect you regardless...”

“It matters to me.” 

She feels him shifting away from her, as much as he can in the narrow cot. “I’ve never known you for a liar. If you say that you didn’t, I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.” 

_That’s not an answer_ , she wants to scream, but he closes the space between them at once, his arms wrapping around her, his left hand slipping down the back of her shift to trace the thick ridges of scar tissue that cover her shoulder-blades. 

Sansa shivers- she hates to be touched there, and he knows it- and Jaime whispers in her ear-

“All I am saying is that if you _did_ do it, you’d have had every reason.” 

A part of her wants to drop to her knees and thank the gods for this unlikely friendship, for Jaime’s choice to support her over his own sister, his own family-

And yet. _Family._

For while she is grateful for Jaime’s help, while she appreciates his companionship- more than appreciates it, really- there is always the sinking feeling in her stomach, the twisting confusion in her brain-

_How can he feel that way about his own blood? How can he feel that way about his own **son?**_

It is the latter that prickles her skin into gooseflesh, the latter that makes her want to slap herself silly- this man that she’s trusting to bring her North, this man that she’s accepted as her truest ally, this man that she’s taken into her bed- _Joffrey’s father._

Yet if she’s learned anything from Petyr Baelish, it is the ability to sift through information, to keep what is useful and place the rest to the side- not discarding, never ignoring, but keeping it away from the here and now. Perhaps one day she’ll confront Jaime with what she knows and ask him how, ask him why...

But right now, his hand is so soft on the nape of her neck, his body so solid and secure- it’s a terrible weakness, but she likes to be held and soothed and gentled, and it’s too cold and too late to fight-

He tries to coax her onto her hands and knees, but she can’t allow that much- the last time he’d taken her from behind, he’d spouted his usual trail of epithets- she pretends to be horrified by his foul language, but it really excites her more than anything. But right before he came, he leaned over her shoulder and hissed in her ear: “Little wolf bitch.” And she’d bitten down on her lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood; the words echoed in her ears, this time in Joffrey’s triumphant crow- she could see him smiling down at her from the Iron Throne as she fell to her knees, back bloodied and dress torn-

The memory kills any flickers of desire within her, and she suddenly cannot abide the thought of having Jaime inside her. She guides him to lie on his back and takes him in her mouth instead, glad that the position will spare her the sight of golden hair and green eyes. 

She lets him finish in her mouth- but while she would normally swallow it down, a thought pierces into her skull, aching and grotesque and horrifying- _This is the seed that made Joffrey._

Sansa tilts her head and spits the liquid on the ground, doing her best to choke down the bile that rises along with it. She reaches for her flagon and rinses her mouth with sour wine, cheeks burning all the while- she can’t really bear to look behind, but knows that it will be worse if she doesn’t-

It is not as bad as she expects- there’s confusion in his eyes, a hint of affront, but nothing to suggest confrontation. He just waits for her to curl on her side before fitting himself around her, wrapping his arm around her waist and resting his face in the crook of her neck. He won’t ask, not tonight, just as she won’t ask, not tonight- 

_Maybe not ever._


End file.
